


Hack My Heart

by melanoms



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hacker!Reader, Murder Mystery, Secret Messages, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Teenagers, Unrequited Love, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24935089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melanoms/pseuds/melanoms
Summary: Sherlock returns to 221B to find an unexpected ghost from his past. In your attempts to find your missing father, the detective relives memories of your brief time together. After all, the reason he wanted to became a detective was to solve your murder.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/You
Comments: 12
Kudos: 121





	1. The Dead Speak Again

John snickered to himself as he and Sherlock trotted up the stairs to 221B. Well, he was trotting. Sherlock was stomping.

“Yes,” John chucked. “The solar system revolves around the sun and not you. But what’s the fourth planet from the sun?”

With a growl, Sherlock gripped the banister and spun around. He looked down on John and narrowed his eyes.

“This information is utterly useless to me.”

John shrugged. “Sure, but only because you don’t know what you don’t know.”

Sherlock spun around in a huff. He marched up the stairs grumbling to himself. But when he swung open the door, he froze. John slammed right into his back.

“Oh, grow up!”

He shoulder checked him to maneuver around the statuesque detective. But the moment the sitting room came into John’s view, his pupils blew wide open. With a hard swallow, he looked at the detective’s stony face and returned his gaze to the couch.

“Sherlock….do, do you…?”

Against his will, Sherlock’s mind was hurtled into the past.

“For being such a genius, you are not helping me out here, Ace.” 

You furrowed your brow at the laptop screen. Sitting across from you at the Holmes’ kitchen table, Sherlock set his forceps next to the petridish and rolled his eyes. 

“I will not be an accessory to your reckless behavior. Not _this_ time.”

“I’m just writing him an email! You don’t miss your big brother now that he’s off and in the workforce?”

He tilted his head to the side with a deadpan expression. “English is not the language you type in.”

“You’re writing to Mikey?” Mrs. Holmes entered the kitchen. 

Sherlock tried to throw a textbook over his equipment. You opened up an email application on your screen and leaned forward. Mrs. Holmes glared at her son.

“Sherlock! How many times do I have to tell—”

You cleared your throat. 

“He’s applying for a new government job. I mean, you probably knew that.” You beamed at her. “But I just wanted to wish him good luck.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.” 

She narrowed her eyes at Sherlock. His hand twitched underneath your astronomy textbook. When she exited the kitchen with a glass of water in hand, you snickered and snatched your book back.

“I will not be an accessory to _your_ reckless behavior. How many more samples of moss do you really need anyway?”

“Only six.”

You cocked an eyebrow. “In addition to the past thirty-seven.” 

Sherlock shrugged before glancing over his shoulder. He lowered his gaze to the petridish and deposited a single drop of acid on top.

You withdrew some goggles from your bag and threw them at him. He caught them without looking up.

“Protect your eyeballs, Ace.” 

Gaze transfixed on the steady stream of smoke rising through the kitchen, Sherlock put on the safety goggles. You slammed the enter key on your keyboard. But when your own experiment produced the same results as your previous five trials, you threw your head back and groaned.

Sherlock furrowed his brow at the resulting chemical reaction. He didn’t expect this particular shade of pale yellow.

“Do you always have to embellish your work with such dramatic outbursts?” he grumbled.

You leaned back in your chair and outstretched your hands. But, receiving no attention from the teenage scientist, you grabbed a pencil and leaned over the table to stab his specimen. 

With a scathing look, Sherlock grabbed your wrist to halt your progress. You snickered and sat back down.

“Help me with this one thing and I’ll listen to your report on the last four samples.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Usually it’s only two.”

“What can I say? I’m particularly motivated today.”

Sherlock sighed and set aside the goggles. He came to your side of the table and you gestured to your screen. Resting his hand next to your machine, Sherlock leaned in to review your work. You tilted your head back and glanced at him, barely grazing his chest.

“It’s all patterns to you. What am I not seeing?”

“Shut up.”

You crossed your arms and waited as his eyes darted across the screen. 

“Line 134. Closing bracket.”

“Where?”

He was already walking back to his moss. You rolled your eyes. But upon seeing the broken pattern, you quickly remedied the issue and hit ‘enter.’ The corner of Sherlock’s lip upturned in the slighted smirk as you shook your fist triumphantly.

Later that evening, Mycroft tried to edit his resume. But anytime he typed the word ‘assiduous’, it was replaced with ‘cake’. 

You slammed the laptop closed and set it side. Leaning your forearms on the edge of the table, you rested your chin on your thumbs.

“Go on, Ace. Tell me everything.”

He already had his notebook out. Sherlock drew in a breath and relayed his studies in moss to you. You clung to every word with bated breath. While you avoided biology like the plague, lessons from Sherlock were always your favorite.

That was the day Sherlock learned that he didn’t have to be afraid of speaking his mind. Because you would never call him a freak.

“Er, Sherlock?” John waved his hand in front of the detective’s face.

Sherlock blinked rapidly and returned to the real world. He strutted to the couch and smacked you awake on the side of the head. 

“It wasn’t me!” you yelped as your body fell to the floor. But, after shaking out your face, you placed your hand on the coffee table and peered over the edge. Your eyes flickered from John’s confused face and finally to Sherlock.

“Hey there, Ace.” You grinned.

“Get out.” Sherlock pointed to the door.

You popped to your feet and wiped down your shirt. But you furrowed your brow at him.

“You aren’t happy to see me? Not even going to introduce me to your…”

You cocked an eyebrow at John. Pursing his lips, he uncrossed his arms just enough to give you a polite wave.

“Friend. John Wa—”

“Oh, I’ve already read your file.” You waved your hand at him.

Sherlock threw the heels of his palms to his forehead and groaned. “What do you want? Mycroft was too busy for you?”

“Well, yes.”

Through gritted teeth, Sherlock sucked in a breath. You shrugged and threw out your hands.

“I’m sorry! But of course I went to him. We were friends first. Plus, he’s smarter.”

“Mycroft? Friends?” John furrowed his brow.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You hacked his university grades.”

“And I changed them back. I just wanted to get to know my new neighbors better.”

“ _Our_ new neighbors. _You_ were the one who moved here.”

You glanced to the side. “You Brits and your semantics.”

“What do you want?”

“C’mon, _detective_. I love the career path by the way. But you haven’t figured it out?”

“I will not.” 

“Sherlock.” 

You swallowed and met him on the other side of the coffee table. With a deep breath, you brushed off the non-existent lint on his shoulders before resting your hands on top. You bit your lip as you looked into his eyes, squeezing his shoulders with more pressure than intended.

“You grew up nice,” you whispered. 

“Yes.” His jaw ticked. “And you apparently _grew up_.”

His eyes widened at the last two words. You removed your hands from him and glanced to the side. John furrowed his brow as he studied the interaction between you two. But you sucked in a breath and, against the doctor’s predictions, threw your arms around the consulting detective. 

John took a step back as every one of Sherlock’s muscles turned to stone. His hands hovered over you as you buried your face into the crook of his neck.

“I missed you,” your voice cracked.

Sherlock swallowed. His heart beat three times before the fibers of his muscles slowly recalibrated. His palms eventually met your back and he leaned his face into yours.

“Aren’t you happy that I’m not dead?” You blinked firmly.

He took a deep breath and separated himself from you. With a firm grip on your forearms, Sherlock gave you a stern look.

“I knew.”

“I know you did.”

“Then why…” He furrowed his brow. “Why didn’t you call?”

Unwilling to accrue a debt with your long lost friend, you prepared a king’s breakfast the next day for the two residents of 221B. John stared at Sherlock and the sheer volume of food he consumed. You furrowed your brow and rested your hand on John’s forearm.

“Not good?”

With a few rapid blinks, John snapped out of his trance. 

“Er, what?”

“Are you a vegetarian? Have dietary restrictions? I can make you something else.”

John tilted his head at the full plate in front of him. 

“Oh no. It’s lovely. Thank you.”

You gave him a half smile before sipping your coffee. Sherlock threw the paper in front of his face.

“Your cooking’s improved.”

“And your compliments haven’t.” You rolled your eyes and turned to John. “Your blog could really use better security, by the way. I can help you with that.”

“Better… _security_?” He furrowed his brow at you.

“I mean, I popped in and wrote an entire draft revealing half your dirty secrets to the world. I didn’t publish it though.”

John bolted upright and grabbed his laptop. You snickered and lowered the top of the paper to bring Sherlock’s face into view. He swallowed and raised it back up. With a deep breath, you continued to strum the side of your mug.

“He’s entirely off the grid. Cell phone gone. No bank accounts. There isn’t a single digital breadcrumb that I can use to find him. And that’s pretty much where my skill set ends.”

You paused. But the paper continued to shield him.

“Sherlock, please. Will you help me? Will you help me find my dad?”

He set the paper down and narrowed his eyes at you. Of course you knew the answer. But you asked. You continued to ask even though you knew better.

He always helped you…eventually.

After a hard swallow, Sherlock gave you a nod. 

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“How, how did you know about the acid? That was years ago.” John called out. 

With a smirk, you sipped your coffee. “I am a woman of many talents Doctor Watson.”

Sherlock brought the paper back to his face. His chest tightened in knots. He could never get used to you haunting his flat. 

The way you hummed to your headphones as you made coffee in the morning. How you always set his safety goggles and gloves within his view at his workstation. When your eyes lit up as you listened to him talk and the sound of your laugh when it was time for him to stop.

“Now you’re just talking in circles.”

He smirked. “Had to check if you were still paying attention.”

“Always.”

But the thing that Sherlock missed the most in your absence was the sound of your voice. He rarely encountered a voice that had any semblance to the tone, tenor, and gentleness of yours. 

Yet, after many years of missing that voice—even going to the brink of insanity in a futile attempt to hear you again…even if only in his mind—here you were. Living, breathing, and talking to him.

“Ace! I’m not hacking into the police files!” you hissed at him outside the Holmes’ residence.

“But it couldn’t have been suicide. They’re missing something.”

“Let’s pause the criminal activity until Mycrosoft is powerful enough to bail us out when we get arrested.”

“But you’re not against going to the crime scene with me tonight?” He cocked an eyebrow.

“Because I’ve got your charming big mouth to talk us out of any trouble.” You patted him on the side of the face. “Now I have to get home or my dad will kill me.”

He rolled his eyes. 

“Literally,” you finished in unison.

You adjusted your bag over your shoulder. “I don’t know, Ace. He’s a scary dude. Could totally murder someone.”

“But not you.”

“No,” you admitted. “But definitely you if you ever tried getting handsy with me.”

Sherlock gave you a deadpan expression. You gently pushed a curl out his face.

“I know, I know. I’d have to be covered in moss to ever catch your eye.”

He wrinkled his nose. “You pretended to vomit when mum asked if we were—”

“Ew.” You held up your hand to stop him. “Don’t remind me.”

“2300?”

“Oh, no. I can’t. I’ve got a date.” 

You gave him a two-fingered salute, beaming at his displeased face as you scampered back to your house. 

“If I’m ever in jail, it better be because of you,” you called back.

“If I’m ever in jail, it _will_ be because of you.”

You spun around and blew him a kiss. When your back was facing him again, you flashed two then three fingers in the air.

Sherlock put his hands in his pockets and kicked at the rocks on the ground. 

Yeah, he had a date too.

Now, Sherlock’s mind started wandering as you told him and John about your father’s habits. 

He was a recluse who avoided leaving his home barring necessary trips like going to the grocer’s. However, you talked on the phone every Sunday evening at precisely 1800. 

Some things never change.

But what was new was how your father had a limp from an injury sustained many years ago. 

“He needs his medication regularly. And that’s what I’m worried about.”

And while Sherlock’s mind clung to the parts of you that stayed the same over these many years apart, there were differences in your demeanor that certainly didn’t go unnoticed by him.

When you opened the refrigerator to find his bag of thumbs, you slammed the door shut and raced to your computer. You threw your headphones in and furiously started typing away. But he could tell by the pace and rhythm of your key strokes that you were typing without any sense of direction.

He gulped and removed all the blood from the kitchen that day, cursing himself for his thoughtlessness. Of course it was the blood.

You were biting your nails more too. The last time that happened was when…

“Will you stop that? It’s disgusting.”

“Sorry.” You rubbed your hand on your trousers. Furrowing your brow, you bore your eyes into the textbook as your knee bounced underneath the Holmes’ kitchen table.

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” You flipped the page.

He yanked the book away and flashed the cover at you.

“I just want to know what they’re teaching you!” you pleaded.

“You hate biology.”

“So?”

“What’s wrong?”

You crossed your arms and leaned back in your chair, picking at the sleeves of your denim jacket.

“I just, no. It’s nothing.”

“I can tell you’re lying.”

“Cannot.” You furrowed your brow. “Wait, how?”

He smirked. “I’m not telling you.”

You rolled your eyes. “My dad just doesn’t want me coming over as much as I do.”

“He actually wants us over there? Needs to keep an eye on me?” he snickered.

“No. He doesn’t want me spending as much time with you at all.”

Sherlock’s breath hitched. “Why?”

You swallowed and avoided his gaze. 

“He said we could move again and he doesn’t want me getting too…attached.”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered from your fingernails to your face. 

“When?”

“I don’t know. He just said any time. His work is unstable, yada yada.”

“What were his exact words?”

“Sherlock.” You hung your arms at your side and leaned your head back. “This isn’t an investigation.”

“His exact words.”

“That love is a dangerous disadvantage. And I should protect myself.”

He tilted his head to the side. “But we aren’t…”

“I know! That’s what I said. It’s gotta be all his stuff with my mom. I don’t know. But we’ll just figure something else out until he chills out.”

And you did.

Abiding by your father’s strict rules, you said goodbye to Sherlock outside his front door. You shook your head and glanced down, focusing on the scuffs on your trainers. 

“It’ll be fine. If I have to move, I’ll tell you. Don’t worry. We have to move a lot. For his job or whatever. It’ll be fine.” 

You gave him your best fake smile. 

It was dreadful.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. But you wrapped your arms around him and swallowed him in a hug. He furrowed his brow. But when you started tapping on his back, he accepted your display of affection and reciprocated.

_di-dah-dah-dit di-dah di-dah-dit dah-di-dah_

He smirked and nodded into your neck.

You pushed him from you and scampered down the path, flashing him two twos as you walked back home.

Yeah, he’d meet you at the park tonight.

Everything would be fine.


	2. Wish Upon a Star

Torches darting around the park, you called out to Sherlock.

“Ace! Is this what you’re looking for?”

“Hm?”

You rolled your eyes and yanked him away from the tree he was studying. Raising your eyebrows, you pointed your torch at some sprightly fuzzy tails of greenery. Sherlock smirked.

A pristine specimen of Rhytidiadelphus squarrosus.

You took his torch and he began the painstaking collection process. Well, it was painstaking for you...to watch.

“We could have just done this during the day.”

He paused his scraping. “Could we?”

You cleared your throat and looked away. Taking a deep breath, you looked at the night sky and wondered where life would transport you to next.

“Do you think we’ll—”

Before you could finish your question, Sherlock pulled on your wrist to redirect the aim of your wandering torch. He shook his head as he completed the final phase of the collection process. 

After tucking the sample in his bag, he reached out for his torch. But you gave him a smirk that he knew was trouble.

You switched off the light and threw it into a stretch of trees and, certainly, more moss. Shining your torch in his eyes, you snickered.

“Sherlock Holmes, you are under arrest for attempted murder.” You put the torch under your chin. “For nearly boring me to death.”

But, to your surprise, the corner of his mouth upturned ever so slightly. He grabbed your free hand and yanked you to him. As a small gasp escaped your lungs, you dropped your torch which he swiftly picked up.

He sprang back to his feet. But only after clearing his throat did he untangle his fingers from yours. Using the stolen contraband, he started to search for his own torch. You chased after Sherlock as the twigs and leaves rustled under your feet.

“Don’t just leave me behind!”

He shone the light on you. You squinted and raised your hands for cover.

“Scared of the dark?” he snickered.

“Scared of my clumsy footing. I’ll break an ankle tripping over a branch.”

He rolled his eyes and gestured for you to come closer, illuminating your path in the process. When you were next to him, you gave him a nod and continued your search together.

“Something wasn’t right about that murder. They won’t listen to me.”

“I know how smart you are, Ace. But can you blame them? They’re professionals.”

“They have no idea what they’re doing.”

A branch snapped nearby and you flinched. He cocked an eyebrow.

“What? You don’t watch horror movies?” You looked at him with wide eyes. “This is the part where the killer comes to hack us to pieces.”

“The gun.”

“Mmm, no. Guns would be too boring.”

“No, the victim. His gun. There was something wrong with the position of the bullet hole.”

You shook your head. “I should not have swiped those photos for you.”

“Oh c’mon.” He glanced at you with a smirk. “You love it.”

“And I don’t want to be the next victims in that file.”

Another branch snapped and you shrieked in reply, grabbing ahold of Sherlock in the process. He snickered.

“Admit it.”

You dug your nails into his arm.

“You are never going to let me live this down.”

He winked at you and you threw your arms to your side.

“Okay! I’m really freaking out right now. Can we just go home?”

“This!” He circled the light across the ground in front of you. “Was your idea!”

“And it was a terrible one!”

He rolled his eyes. “We can leave. But first, I need you to answer a few questions.”

“Sherlock, I am under duress! This will not be admissible in court.”

“Does your father have guns?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Just because I’m Ameri—where are you going with this?”

“Has he taught you how to shoot?”

“Yes,” you hissed.

He glanced around the empty woodland and leaned in closer. “What’s it like?”

“You little pervert! Let’s get out of—”

Pulling on your wrist, Sherlock spun you back around. He swallowed and drew in a deep breath.

“It’s important. How much do you have to…” He tugged on your wrist. “...for it to fire?”

“That depends on the weight of the trigger pull.”

You slipped your wrist through his hand. But stopped just short of breaking contact and hooked two of your fingers around his. 

“Hold a steady grip.” You nodded. “For the one that my dad has me use, it felt like this.”

Faces glowing from the light of the torch, you held your breath as you mimicked the strain of pulling the trigger on his fingers. When you fully withdrew, you mouthed the sound of a gun firing.

He furrowed his brow. But when his eyes glanced down to your linked fingers, you pulled your hand away and shook it out. He stared at his palm as his fingers slowly unfurled before looking at you with wide eyes.

“There’s no way he could have done it. His wrist couldn’t maintain that strain.”

“If you’re killing yourself, I hardly doubt you care.”

“But even unconsciously, we’re programmed to avoid discomfort. He would have used his other hand.”

Your eyes went wide. “Sherlock, you’re almost always right about everything. But this, this is serious. This is actual murder.”

But he was already shaking his head and staring at the ground. 

“He was in an accident a few months before. There’s no way he could have sustained the weight of that trigger pull in his recovery.”

“But it would depend on the gun. And you’re not a doctor or a gunslinger. You don’t know anything about firearms or recovery times. The police have more experience with this stuff.”

His eyes met yours, lit with excitement and the ever present glow of your torch.

“I can learn.”

“Yeah, practice with my dad’s guns and he’ll shoot you for it.”

“C’mon. Let’s get you home.”

He linked his arm around yours and guided you back to the street. 

“How chivalrous of you.”

“Mum taught me right.”

When you were on the sidewalk, you untangled your arm from him and shoved your hands in your pockets. You shared the light of your torch the rest of the walk home. 

Outside your front door, Sherlock turned off the light. He spun it in his hand to offer you the handle. But you shook your head.

“Keep it.”

“I’m just down the street.”

“I’m not going to be an accessory to your murder if someone attacks you.”

“And how am I supposed to defend myself from an ax murderer with a bloody torch?”

“I don’t know, Ace.” You shrugged. “You’re smart. You’d figure something out.”

You dashed inside before he could protest.

Now at 221B Baker Street, you traced your fingers over the bullet holes in the wall.

“Christ, Ace. I should have taught you to shoot. You might have learned proper gun safety.”

From behind his laptop, John snickered. “Not his area of expertise.”

Leaning on the kitchen table, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at you. You gave him a curious look before throwing yourself into a seat across from John.

You opened up your own computer and started typing away. John jerked back in his seat and raised his hands from the keyboard.

The mouse continued moving.

The bloody mouse continued moving across his screen.

You chuckled and glanced at Sherlock. But he remained stone faced. You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms on the table, focusing your attention on a more appreciative audience.

“You guys are really susceptible to attack here. Few lines of code and your entire digital world could come tumbling down.” You furrowed your brow at Sherlock. “Did Mycroft really not do a better job of setting you up?”

Sherlock strutted next to you and swiped your mug from the table. 

“I don’t need him to protect me.” 

He wrinkled his nose and took a sip before spitting it right back into the mug. You propped your elbow on the back of the chair to sit sideways and glare at him.

“You’re getting me a new cup of coffee.”

“You stopped putting sugar in it.” He scowled at the foul concoction.

“It’s better without.”

“I agree,” John chimed in.

“See?” You gestured from him to Sherlock. “The soldier agrees with me. We appreciate the rough n’ tough life.”

Sherlock almost slammed the mug next to your machine. But he moved to the left and out of the danger zone before setting it down gently. 

To John’s utter bewilderment, Sherlock stomped to the kitchen and yanked a new mug from the cupboard. You faced forward and started typing away.

“Okay, John. I’ve secured your wireless network so you have to be at least _this_ good to break into it.” You pointed to yourself before typing some more. “I’m going to secure your blog next because I don’t want anyone using that against you or posting inaccurate information.”

You peeked over the screen. “Or worse, _accurate_ information.”

Sherlock leaned in to set the mug of fresh coffee next to you. Before it could meet the wood surface, your hand wrapped around the ceramic. His fingers grazed yours in the seamless handoff.

You took a sip and almost spat it back out.

Almost.

Hand over your mouth, you gulped and set the mug back down. You shook your head and resumed your work.

“If I start drinking sugar in my coffee again, it’s going to be because of you.”

“The only reason I take sugar is mine _was_ because of you.”

You smirked. 

“Yeah, you had no taste until I came into your life. What did you do without—”

You swallowed and slowly turned to look at him. He remained expressionless. Holding your breath, you gestured to the screen.

After a heavy moment, Sherlock rested his hand on the edge of the table. He leaned in to examine your script. You could feel the warmth of his breath graze your cheek.

“Closing quotation on Line 208.”

You nodded. He turned his head towards yours and pursed his lips, hovering next to you for a moment that didn’t go unnoticed by John. Using his hands for leverage, Sherlock threw himself upright. He cleared his throat and scowled.

“Honestly, have you not learned better practices by now?”

You sucked in a breath.

“Just making sure you’re still paying attention,” your voice cracked.

“Always.”

You reached for your mug. But Sherlock swiped it and walked back to the kitchen. He resumed his morning ritual of observing you.

“We’re going to his flat,” he announced.

“I already told you.” You slammed your screen closed. “You won’t find anything there. I already gave you the note about his alleged ‘vacation.’ You should have everything you need.”

“Why are you so insistent?”

“He’d _kill_ me if he found out I let you into his place.”

“Stop being so melodramatic.”

“He’s an incredibly private man, Sherlock. You know that.”

“And if you weren’t going to give me access, then why did you come here? Even my worst clients are more cooperative than this.”

Your eyes flickered to John. But immediately darted to the mug of rejected coffee next to your laptop.

“Fine. I’ll play by your rules, _Detective Holmes_. But you better deduct all my additional labor from your invoice.”

Lying in the grass, you clasped your hands and rested them on your stomach. You took a deep breath and stared at the night sky.

“You know our galaxy isn’t actually still?” You turned your head to look at Sherlock in the darkness. “Even on a planet that’s spinning on its axis and then rotating around the sun, even the entire galaxy is in motion too.”

“Why do you care about what happens out there?”

“Because it makes me feel so small.”

He propped up his upper body and furrowed his brow at you.

“Why would you ever want to feel like that?”

“Because,” you leaned back to smile at him, “it’s like it all just doesn’t matter. I don’t have to be worried about the little things. At the end of the day, I’m just stardust.”

Sherlock threw himself back to the grass. You inched closer to him and smirked.

“There’s freedom in being invisible, Ace.”

“But there’s power in knowledge. Being able to observe, assess, and understand what is here and right in front of you. If you can extrapolate, you have control. You can predict.”

“How boring.”

“Boring?” He scrambled up to a seated position.

You tilted your head upward. But with a grunt, you fell back to the grass.

“Help.” You outstretched your hand. 

Shaking his head, Sherlock took your hand in his and yanked you upright. You crossed your legs and sat in front of him.

“Isn’t it boring if you always know the answers?”

“Even your beloved stars are a simple algorithm of chemistry and physics. Throw the right mixture together under the proper circumstances and you get the birth of a star, a supernova, or a black hole.”

“Does it make it less magical?”

“Magic is just deception. You want to suspend your belief. Whereas I find security in science. No room for uncertainty.”

“Then there’s no mystery. No chance to be surprised.”

“Surprises aren’t always so...friendly. Asteroids creating mass extinctions and whatnot.”

“Or was that just physics?”

He smirked. You placed your hand on his knee and smiled in the darkness.

“Would you have ever predicted that I would move across the street from you?”

“No.”

“Am I not a friendly surprise?”

He picked at the grass and shook his head. Of course you knew the answer. What a stupid question to ask.

“Just food for thought, Ace.”

“We should get you home.”

“Right, home.”

You popped to your feet and he grabbed your torch from a few nights ago. It became a ritual: Sherlock picking you up and dropping you off in the middle of the night.

It was the only time he was allowed anywhere near your house. The young scientist was desperate for answers, for knowledge about what the walls of your forbidden home contained.

But you assured him it was exactly what you would expect from a gun-enthusiast American.

And for now, your word was enough.

As Sherlock rummaged through your father’s flat, he tried to imagine you in a home with American flag memorabilia plastered across the walls. He scoffed at the bald eagle decorative plate and accompanying knick-knacks on the desk in the sitting room.

But he furrowed his brow at the cardboard boxes filled to varying degrees. He started to peer inside to examine the contents. But you grabbed his hand to drag him into the kitchen.

“This is where I found his note.”

You pointed to the table. Scuff marks, water damage, and wear on the chair told Sherlock it was the most frequently occupied seat. The head of the table per se—even in a house for one.

When you walked to the refrigerator, John entered the kitchen and tugged on Sherlock’s sleeve. He cleared his throat and spoke lowly.

“I have a question for you.”

“I’m _busy_.”

“Sherlock…” His eyes darted to the hallway. “Please.”

You spun around to display the refrigerator contents. The half empty bottle of ketchup only had a stick of butter to keep it company.

“Weird, right?” You raised your eyebrows.

“Yes, why would you put _that_ in the refrigerator?” He turned around to follow John. 

You got a glass of water and sat at the table. After a sip, you started picking at your nails. Sherlock and John returned in a moment and you bolted upright, shoving out your chair and knocking your glass to the floor in the process.

It shattered the moment it hit the tile. You slammed your eyes shut.

“Oops.”

Running. Panting. Stopped. 

Back pressed to bark. Chests heaving. Frigid air nipping at your flushed skin.

“We know you’re back here.”

Torches dancing nearby. Sherlock pressed his palm to the tree and leaned closer. You snickered.

“This area is closed after sundown. If you come back, there will be trouble.”

Your giggles grew louder and Sherlock threw his hand over your mouth. Your eyes went wide. But when he deemed the officers far enough away, he removed his hand and glared at you.

“You have no sense of stealth,” he hissed.

“Oops.”

He shook his head and you propped yourself upright. But in doing so, you only brought your bodies closer. He remained frozen in place, staring at a spot in the distance.

“Let’s get out of here before they come back,” you whispered. “Unless you want to interrogate them. I’m sure they’d love questions from a kid detective.”

“Shut up.”

He traced his hand down your forearm and to your wrist. Your breathing increased as Sherlock slowly turned to look at you—face barely lit in the moonlight.

He smirked.

“You’ll have to get better control of your body if you want to sneak around.”

You yanked your wrist from his grasp and shook out your hand.

“I doubt the officers are going to check my pulse like a human lie detector.”

“They wouldn’t.” He tilted his head to the side. “That’s why they should hire me.”

“I don’t think you’d fare well having a boss. Maybe you should freelance. Do contact work.”

“Like you?”

“Side gigs are fun.”

“Yours are illegal.”

“ _Less_ than legal. But that won’t matter soon enough. I’ll have someone on the inside.”

“Thought I was just a contractor?”

You shook your head. “Worse, consultant. You’d just rattle off your own reports at them all day. God forbid you do any real work.”

He chuckled. “Knowledge has higher value. Anyone can execute the DI's orders.”

“Yeah, this is why you’d have to freelance. You wouldn’t do the grunt work required to work up the ladder.”

“Disappointed? I won’t be able to break you out of jail as easily.”

“Aw, officer. I promise I didn’t mean to.” You batted your eyelashes.

“You just admitted to being guilty.”

But you leaned closer and traced the side of his face with your thumb. If the woodland was illuminated by any more light, you could have seen the way your breath mingled in the frigid night air.

“What are you…” He swallowed.

But with a giggle, you freed yourself from the minuscule space between him and the tree behind your back. You spun around and punched him in the shoulder.

“I don’t need you to bust me out.”

He rubbed the back of his neck and tittered. “Yeah, you’d just call Mycroft.”

“He likes me more than you.”

“Of course he does. That doesn’t take much.”

“C’mon, Ace. Let’s get home before you freeze to death. You’re practically skin and bone.”

“Wait.” He took a step closer to you. “This year...are you, will you…”

You swallowed. “I don’t know. I want to. But I don’t know if he’ll let me.”

“Mum will be disappointed. Mycroft too.”

“He just likes my sweet potatoes and breakfast braid. I was thinking cherry this year. You know, if…”

Sherlock swallowed and turned on your torch. He smirked and shook his head.

“You’re like the little sister he never had.”

“His words?” You raised your eyebrows.

“Of course not,” he scoffed. “But I’ve never heard him call anyone’s food _exquisite_. So that’s close enough.”

“Is that how you see me? Like a—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t need any more siblings. Mycroft is gratuitous enough.”

“Well, as much as you two like to play arch enemies, I’m sure he’d be heartbroken if you froze to death. So let’s get back.”

“Heartbroken. Hilarious.”

“You Holmes boys are so dramatic.” You linked your arm in his to guide him back on track. “Do you think I can get him to hug me back this year? He hates my hugs.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Yeah, he does. I do it just to annoy him. Hold on a little longer every year.”

“I thought you weren’t coming over?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny if I’ll be at the Holmes household this Christmas. But I can dream.”

“Are you going to wish upon a star?”

You smacked his arm. “Don’t pretend that you haven’t been reading my astronomy books.”

“Physics. I like the physics.”

“Sure. Maybe hunting for some magic of your own?”

“For God’s sake. It’s astronomy, not astrology.”

“I did read your horoscope, my baby Capricorn. It said you better get your ass home to avoid becoming a human icicle.”

“You’re the one who’s cold.”

“Am not.” You glared at him.

“Do you really want to go home?”

“Of course not.” 

He buried his hands deeper into his pockets, simultaneously drawing you closer to him.

“I think I read your horoscope too...said when you do get thrown in jail, the Holmes brothers will make sure you stay there.”

“I’m not a criminal, Ace!”

“You commit crimes.”

“ _Less_ than legal. I do less than legal things. And no one gets hurt in the process.”

He chuckles “Just your clients' bank accounts.”

“Precisely. I’m offering them a service.”

“Does your dad know about this?”

“Aw, c’mon. Some detective you are.” You stopped in your tracks. “Hey, they finally fixed the street lamps.”

“How observant.” He turned off the torch. 

You unlinked your arm from his and shoved your hands back in your pockets.

“Well, you don’t have to risk your safety walking me to my place anymore.”

“Now who’s dramatic?”

“Between my dad and the ax murderer, you better watch your back.”

Sherlock drew in a deep breath. Biting his lip, he glanced to the side before returning his gaze to you.

“Do you...do you really want me to just go home?”

“Of course not.”

Sherlock linked his arm back through yours and dutifully walked you to your front door. You glanced at the darkened windows and looked back at him.

“So chivalrous.” 

Heart thumping inside your chest, you leaned in and pecked him on the cheek before untangling yourself from him. He coughed and outstretched your torch, avoiding eye contact.

“Keep it.” You shrugged. “Something to remember me by.”

“Or replace what you stole from me.”

“Misplaced. I _misplaced_ it. See? Less than legal. But not entirely a crime.”

He rolled his eyes and tapped the torch in his hand.

“I think you’re confusing legality with morality.”

“Mmm, my little philosopher here to correct me.”

He snickered. “I’ll become a detective just to bust you one day.”

“Good luck. You’re gonna need that wish upon a star.”

“And you’ll need some better science to hide your tracks.”

With a smirk, you tilted your head to the side. “You’d just let me go.”

“Don’t count on it.” He shook his head.

“If I’m in jail, it better be because of you.”

“If I’m in jail, it _will_ be because of you.”

“Night, Sherlock.”

“Morning.”

He gave you a salute with the torch before traipsing down your front path. Your body convulsed in shivers as you waited for him to reach his own front door. When he propped it open with his foot, you blew him a kiss and ran inside. He smirked.

You’d get your gift whether or not you came over on Christmas.

He’d make sure of it.


	3. Written in the Stars

As you bent down to pick up the broken glass, Sherlock lunged forward to prevent you from—

“Ah!” you hissed as the glass sliced across your fingers.

Your breath caught in your throat as the blood dripped from your hand. Sherlock’s pupils blew wide open as the scarlet spots spread across the spilled water.

His chest tightened just like the day he rushed into your house for the first time. Only to find that you weren’t there. Well, not all of you at least.

“How could you be so stupid?” he snipped.

“Sherlock!” John gave him a stern look. “Let me, let me grab some bandages.”

“I didn’t mean to! That’s why they call it an accident.”

“This time,” Sherlock growled through gritted teeth.

But you could only stare at him as you slowly rose to your feet. He threw the heels of his palms to his forehead and started pacing the kitchen.

You went to wash your cut at the sink just as John returned and handed you some antiseptic and bandages.

“How long?” John whispered.

“What are you talking about?”

“How long was he, was he…”

Sherlock spun around and stared at you with wide eyes.

_Six months. Mycroft gained seven pounds in the last six months. That’s how long your father was…_

You swallowed. “Wanting to snap at me? A while.”

John furrowed his brow. But you bit your lip and started to clean your hand. Against your conscious will, your eyes darted to Sherlock before you applied antiseptic to your cut. 

“Three liters.” Sherlock bore his eyes into the back of your head.

You leaned back and sucked in a breath.

“The amount of blood in the human body is approximately seven percent of your body weight.”

He stepped behind you and examined your cut. If you took a deep enough breath, your back could kiss his chest.

“But you left behind three liters of _your_ blood. Even discounting the amounts mixed with your father’s, there was far too much blood for any person, let alone a teenage girl, to have survived.”

Sherlock spun you around to face him and grabbed your right arm. He applied pressure on the crook of your elbow with his thumb.

“That’s why you only let me touch your left arm. This one was too bruised. But I never saw since you were always wearing long sleeves and coats for the winter.”

“Sherlock, I didn’t…I didn’t mean to…”

“Of course you did. It’s precisely what you meant to do.”

He released your arm and you started to bandage your cut. You looked at John and mouthed ‘sorry’ to him. But he gazed back with a mixture of remorse and pity. When your wound was bandaged, you gestured to the door.

“You can leave. I’ll find him myself.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at you.

“You were withdrawing your blood for months, even weeks closer to, to…” He swallowed. “You planned the whole thing. And you still never told me. Even though you had _every_ opportunity.”

“Because I couldn’t!”

“No, because you made a choice. The _wrong_ choice and you made me pay for it.”

“Do you think I wanted to leave? To leave the _only_ person I considered my friend?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I thought Mycroft was your friend first.”

“Sherlock, you were my best friend and I loved you. It _killed_ me to have to, to have to…”

“Apparently not enough.”

“Would you rather I be dead?”

“I already watched you die once. I won’t do it again.”

Your breath hitched and you looked away. You softly shook your head before looking back at him.

“When did you, when did you know I was alive?”

“A week later.”

“What?”

“Mycroft. He, he knew that day. Like he needed another reason to loathe Christmas.”

“I didn’t pick the day. You know I would have wanted anything but—”

“We ran across the street when we heard the sirens. Mycroft made a few calls and they let us inside. And he knew. He knew right away what happened. But he didn’t say anything to me. Wanted me to piece it together myself.”

You grabbed a broom and started sweeping the broken glass. Clenching your jaw, you bore your eyes into the floor as your blood stained the bristles. Sherlock yanked the broom from your hands and tossed it to John.

“Do you know how excruciating it was for me to try to solve your murder? Especially when the police had _no clue_ what they were doing. I was the one who had to tell them that people can survive losing up to two thirds of their blood volume.”

“Sherlock…”

“But I figured it out. I finally solved the case and when I did, I waited. I waited to suddenly start failing my classes. I waited for my files to be replaced with documents about the stars. I waited for correspondence from an untraceable server. Mum threatened to take away my computer because of how much I was staring at the screen.”

“I wasn’t allowed to. You know that.” You stared at him with wide eyes. 

“And since when did you listen to your father’s rules?”

“Since a kid detective almost caught him! Of all the places we’ve lived, no one _ever_ found out. Until I became best friends with a curious genius.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened as he tilted his head to the side. But you sucked in a breath and threw out your arms.

“Christ, Sherlock! You can figure out almost all the pieces. But you miss the most obvious ones sometimes.”

“He was the…”

“Ax murderer of the block, yes. Well, the gunman. He always made sure to aim with the dominant hand. He wasn’t an amateur. But he didn’t take the target’s injury into account.”

“The files…they weren’t from the police.”

“No, I stole them from his hard drive. Part of the evidence he passed off to receive the second half of the payment. I thought it would shut you up enough to stop digging.”

You took a step forward and reached for his shoulder. But Sherlock jerked backward, leaving you to grapple with the air. You glanced down and bit your lip.

“I always listened to every one of your theories. Why do you think I was suddenly so adamant about pushing you in the direction against your instinct?”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Accessory to murder at seventeen. And now helping others just like you create new online identities.”

You opened your mouth to speak. But Sherlock smirked, expression filled with smugness.

“You think I learned nothing reading your code all these years?”

You swallowed. “It’s not always criminals who need to disappear. But when you do, you need some digital footprint when you start a new life. Or people get suspicious these days.”

“You really are just a common criminal after all. It’s a good thing we are no longer friends.”

“Sherlock…don’t, don’t say…”

“I know your father died a few weeks ago. Even John figured it out.”

“ _Even I_ figured it out?” John furrowed his brow. But he waved his hand and crossed his arms to resume staring at the floor.

You paced your breathing as much as could to prevent the onslaught of tears from destroying your vision. But Sherlock, a heartbroken boy again, was merciless in making your pain match his.

“Six months ago he was diagnosed and you went to Mycroft.”

“Of course,” your voice cracked. “I had to make sure no one else was after my hitman of a father. I just wanted to let him, just help him die comfortably.”

“Like the good daughter you’ve always been. Cover up his murders. Corrupt evidence files. Secure his online presence and communications.”

“I had to protect him. He’s, he was all I had.”

“And who’s fault is that.”

You gulped. “Please. Don’t.”

“After he passed, you moved in here. Started packing his belongings. You even put your water glass in exactly the same spot he always did. But you forgot to dispose of all of his medications. Good thing I’ve enlisted the help of a good doctor and not a liar.”

“That’s enough.” You clenched your hands into fists.

Sherlock swallowed as the blood seeped through your bandages. But he quickly buried the flash of remorse in his eyes and glared at you.

“Well, we are in agreement. Since you don’t need my services, we best be going.”

He adjusted the lapels of his coat and started strutting out the door. John scrambled after him and mouthed ‘sorry’ to you. 

Sherlock swung the door closed to slam it shut. But John caught the handle and closed it gently with a timid wave through the narrowing crack.

You chased after them and threw the door back open.

“Sherlock, wait!”

He kept walking.

“You know that I love you,” you called out. “I’ve always loved you.”

He froze. Sherlock turned his head back and bore his eyes into the floor.

“And I love you. But that doesn’t mean I forgive you. Or that I ever will.”

You could only stand there as he walked away with his new doctor companion in tow.

-

You stomped through the streets of London clutching a paper bag. Wrapping your hand around the gilded handle you threw open the door and immediately softened your footing. Taking gentle steps through the Diogenes Club, you raised the bag at the doorman.

He gestured to your usual room and you opened the door. Mycroft was in the middle of pouring himself a glass of scotch. You set the bag on the end table next to his usual seat and swiped the glass from his hand. 

You downed it in a single gulp.

Mycroft rolled his eyes but swiftly started unpacking the meal you brought him.

“That is some of the finest scotch in the world and you just devoured it like cheap lighter fluid.”

You started pouring yourself another glass.

“Well, I don’t see any trashy American whisky here. So I’ll take what I can get.”

You threw yourself in your seat across from him and crossed your legs, actually taking conscious sips of this round of scotch. Mycroft furrowed his brow at the single glass container you brought him.

“Will you not be joining me today?”

“Liquid diet,” you growled. “It’s how I keep my girlish figure.”

You slammed the glass to the table and drew in a deep breath. Mycroft took a bite of your cooking, closing his eyes and raising his eyebrows in praise.

“Secret curry recipe from a family restaurant in India.” You smirked.

After a swallow, he released an exhale. “Impeccable.”

Mycroft patted his mouth with the cloth napkin you included. He narrowed his eyes at you.

“Did you steal it?”

“No, I didn’t _steal_ it.” You leaned forward and scowled at him. “I made them a website capable of taking online orders.”

You took another sip of scotch as you leaned back in the armchair. 

“Now, the vindaloo recipe, _that_ I stole.”

Grimacing, you examined your scotch and glanced back at him.

“Should I not be confessing my sins to the British government?”

With a chuckle, Mycroft set his fork down. He clasped his hands in his lap and raised his eyebrows at you.

“As far as sisters with criminal intent are concerned, you are, by far, my preference.”

You cocked an eyebrow. “You always say that like I’m competing with someone.”

“Certainly.” 

You and Mycroft sat in silence as you finished your meals. How the man could eat without raising the decibel level of the room, you would never know. But when he placed the fork inside the empty container with a gentle clink, you finished off your scotch and set the glass aside.

He swallowed and drew in a deep breath. “Do you need me to send for your belongings?”

“Sure. Thanks, Mycrosoft.”

Reaching for his mobile, he gave you a single nod and sent a text. You bit your lip and glanced at him.

“Should I take the job?” you asked.

“That’s your prerogative.”

“Why don’t you tell me what’s so special about this guy? I could see it in your eyes when I mentioned his name.”

“That is a conversation you will have to have with Sherlock.”

“He doesn’t want to talk to me,” you mocked.

“Give him time. He is not the most emotionally adept.”

You slouched in your chair. “Runs in the family.”

-

“It’s wonderful to see you, dear,” Mrs. Holmes sang. “Almost thought you went missing on us.”

You adjusted your backpack over your shoulder. “I’m taking chemistry next term. Wanted to get some pointers before I brave it.”

“You’re coming over this year for Christmas still? Your father is welcome to join us too.”

Sherlock jerked his head to the side, gesturing to his room. You narrowed your eyes at him before returning your smiling face to Mrs. Holmes.

“I’ll be here. But my dad won’t. He likes to be alone on Christmas. Misses my mom.”

“Oh, of course. I don’t want to intrude.”

Sherlock grabbed your hand and dragged you to his room. You rolled your eyes, but didn’t protest.

“Keep the door open!” Mrs. Holmes called out. “I don’t want you two inhaling any mysterious fumes!”

When you entered Sherlock’s room, you set down your backpack and tossed your winter coat and scarf on top. He abruptly closed the door as you threw yourself onto his bed. You rested your hands on your stomach and stared at the ceiling. Furrowing his brow, Sherlock slouched in the chair at his desk. He nodded to you with a smirk.

“How?”

“Told him the same story.”

“Hm.” Sherlock pursed his lips and nodded. “He’s not the sentimental type.”

“No,” you sighed. “But the dead mother card gets most people to stop asking questions.”

“You never told me what happened to her.”

“What did I just say?”

“I’m not most people. And that wasn’t a question.”

“No, you’re just a kid detective who loves to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“Doesn’t belong? Isn’t that what friends do? Share secrets.”

“It’s not a secret, Ace. I just don’t know.” You wiggled your eyebrows at him. “She died before I was born.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He hopped out of his chair and gestured for you to move over. You inched across his bed to the other side and he laid down next to you. Sherlock rested one hand underneath his head and tried to identify the particular spot on the ceiling you were staring at.

“You should put stars up here,” you murmured.

“Uck, how pedestrian.”

You chuckled. “I don’t get to put anything up in my room. If I could, you know I’d paint the entire solar system across the ceiling.”

“You have zero artistic talent.”

“Just because I can’t play an instrument so save my life doesn’t mean I can’t learn how to paint.”

“You’re never touching my violin again.”

“Is that what you tell all the girls?”

Sherlock’s heart started beating faster. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it before the words could escape his lips. After a deep breath, he spoke barely above a whisper.

“You can paint this ceiling,” he cleared his throat to speak louder. “Whenever my exile is over.”

You started giggling and he breathed a sigh of relief. 

“We’d really have to leave the door open then. Can you imagine us getting high on paint fumes?”

Sherlock smirked as you chuckled to yourself. But after a moment, you turned your head to face him and drew in a breath.

“You didn’t get me a gift this year did you? Because if you did, I’ll kill you.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “I got you a get out of jail free card.”

“You’d let me get away with your murder?”

He rolled his eyes and you redirected your gazes to the ceiling, imagining what it would be like to paint that canvas with your partner in crime. 

“Every year you tell me not to get you anything.” He furrowed his brow. “But you never abide by your own rules.”

“Because you don’t listen to them. I’m not showing up empty handed.”

“Neither am I. It’s impolite.”

You shook your head. “I’m happy to know that your gifts are purely out of obligation.”

“You know what I mean.”

You rolled over and the mattress groaned as you shifted your weight. Resting your hands underneath your head, you blinked a few times as you cleared your throat.

“Sherlock.”

He turned to look at you. Scrutinizing your expression, he started to sit upright. But you lowered him back to the bed by putting your hand on his chest. 

His heart started racing again. Not that you were counting his increasing 73 beats per minute.

“You’re my best friend and I love you.” You looked into his eyes.

He furrowed his brow and put his hand over yours. 

“Isn’t it obvious?”

You groaned and started to withdraw. But he pressed your hand into him with a squeeze and gave you a firm look.

“No,” he clarified. “Is it not obvious…that I, that I love you too?”

A smile dared creep across the corners of your lips. You leaned in and his eyes bolted to the ceiling. With the utmost precision, you pressed your lips to his cheek. You could hear him swallow as you whispered in his ear.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes.”

“We’ve still got a few days,” he cleared his throat.

You sprang upright and snickered as he dragged his hands over his face.

“Well, we better get celebrating then.”

With a bounce, you leaped over him and off the bed. From your bag, you withdrew a lavender box with a black sash tied on top. Sherlock sat upright and you placed it in front of his keyboard. After a swallow, your eyes flickered from the gift and back to him.

“I know it’s early, but I wanted to get this to you. You know, just in case.”

“But you told mum—”

“I’d rather be early than late. That’s all.”

He looked down and shook his head. “But I didn’t, yours isn’t…”

“It’s fine,” you laughed. “I’m not here to kick you out of the club of polite Englishmen. Only Mycroft can do that. And I won’t say anything if you don’t.”

After a slow nod, Sherlock stood up. He reached for the box. But you put your hand on top and held up a finger. 

“Not until after I leave. I don’t, I don’t want you getting weird on me.”

“Why would I…”

“Just don’t open it until I’m gone. Or Christmas if you want to feel better about your polite factor.”

He put his hands in his pockets and shook his head. “Alright, I promise.”

You tossed on your coat and scarf and threw your backpack over your shoulder. Eyes darting around the room, Sherlock swiped a chemistry textbook from his desk and offered it to you.

“Just in case he asks.”

With a sad smile, you shook your head. “I already took chem, Ace. I learned the important stuff.”

Sherlock walked you to the front door. After waving goodbye to Mrs. Holmes, you wrapped your arms around him and murmured in his ear.

“Don’t you ever forget it, okay?”

“You too.”

Sherlock watched you from the front door as you walked across the street. With your back to him, you gave him a two finger salute. But you offered no other hand gestures to him. He swallowed as he closed the door.

It was fine. You didn’t have to say anything else because he’d see you Christmas morning.

Eagerness getting the better of him, he bolted to the bedroom and untangled the sash around the lavender box. But his eyes went wide when he withdrew a gold key chain from the black tissue paper.

C46H65N15O12S2

Sherlock rubbed his thumb over the gilded formula. He scrambled to read the minuscule note inside.

_I don’t need to wish upon a star when I’ve got you._

Breath caught in his throat, he raced to the front door and swung it open. But Sherlock could only release a pained sigh when he saw that you were already back within the forbidden walls of your castle.

-

Now, as he stomped around the flat, Sherlock gathered your laptop, cords, and headphones. You never went anywhere without your computer. But for some reason, this was different.

Ignoring the ache in his chest, he threw your bag open. But in the gruffness of his heartbroken touch, an item fell out of the side pocket and clattered the floor. He rolled his eyes and snatched it from the floorboards. But Sherlock furrowed his brow at the familiarity of the metal in his hand.

Swiping his thumb across the surface, Sherlock held his breath at the sight of a key chain that resembled the one you gave him many years ago. But this one was silver, beaten and scratched, and had a different chemical formula.

C43H66N12O12S2

Closing his eyes, Sherlock drew in a deep breath and wrapped his hand around the other half of the chemical combination. He marched to his room and buried himself in the depths of his wardrobe, withdrawing a small black box with a worn cerulean ribbon on top.

-

At your late father’s flat, you carelessly tossed his belongings in boxes. You wiped a few residual tears from your eyes when you heard a gentle knock on the door. 

Sniffling, you threw the door open. But upon the sight of your uninvited guest, you started to close it immediately. Sherlock slammed his palm to the wood and tilted his head to the side. You sucked in a breath and gestured for him to enter.

“Well,” you swallowed. “Go ahead. Yell at me some more and then can you just leave me alone? I’ll go back to being dead to you.”

Sherlock wrapped his hands around your face. You sucked in a breath and avoided his gaze. But after a few rapid blinks, your eyes finally met his.

“I am so sorry,” he murmured.

“Me too.”

Clearing his throat, he reached into his coat pocket and offered you the gift that was meant for you long ago.

“Merry Christmas.”

You glanced between the box and him. “But it’s July.”

He furrowed his brow. “Don’t they have a saying about that?”

Eyes already misting again, you took the box with trembling hands. Your breath caught in your throat as your fingers graced his. With a hard swallow, your gaze flickered back to him.

“Do you need me to—”

“No,” Sherlock whispered. “You’ve waited long enough.”

Biting your lip, you slowly undid the ribbon and removed the lid. He relieved the discarded items from your hands and shoved them in his pocket so you could pick up the metal disk inside.

You furrowed your brow at the concentric circles with a single dot adorning each one. 

“It’s,” you laughed softly. “It’s the solar system?”

He smirked. “The exact position of the planets on the day you moved…the day you moved across the street.”

Sherlock looked at the floor and shook his head. “I-I had to treat the metal a few times. That’s why, that’s why it wasn’t ready when—”

“I love it.”

“And I love you.”

Sherlock wrapped his hand around the base of your neck and leaned in. He bit his lip and closed his eyes for a few breaths. When he opened them again, he looked into your eyes as the ache in his chest returned.

And for a single instant in time, Sherlock Holmes was not a consulting detective, an adversary, a freak, nor even a genius.

But simply a boy in love.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and guided his lips to yours. Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat as your ghost—the muse that haunted him for many tormented years—could finally rest in peace.

Whether you call it magic or claim it’s science, this love transcended space, time, and even death itself: for it was written in the stars long ago.

And you had the evidence to prove it.

Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes.

Merry Christmas indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For explanation into different things like the chemical formulas, you can read my[Director's Cut on Tumblr.](https://melanoms.tumblr.com/post/622552807497678848/hack-my-heart-directors-cut)


	4. Healing Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter from a Tumblr kiss request for my 50 Kiss Challenge.
> 
> #34 kisses that start on their fingers and run up their arm, eventually ending on their lips.

That morning, Sherlock threw on his coat to meet Molly at Barts. He upturned the collar, eager to acquire the specimen from her. He wouldn’t dare be awake at this hour otherwise.

However, thanks to a nagging knot in his chest, Sherlock found himself standing at the threshold to his bedroom.

Holding his breath, he gingerly placed his fingertips to the wood and applied an insignificant amount of pressure. He peered at you, sleeping in his bed, through the crack. 

It became something of a ritual, no, a regular occurrence. Ever since you returned to his life, Sherlock found himself “checking on you” more and more. He had to make sure you were, indeed, real.

For purely scientific reasons, of course.

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock watched your breath rise and fall. The knot twisted even tighter in his chest when his eyes lingered on the braces on your hands. 

It was only the night before that you and John had a row: your first with the doctor.

John slammed your laptop closed. Your fingers barely escaped before he swiped it from the desk.

“No more work,” he commanded.

“I have clients too. And deadlines!” You threw your hands in the air.

“Unless you want to be complaining to me about carpal tunnel in three years, you’re going to take a break.”

John yanked your machine out of reach; unperturbed by your protests.

“Let me finish writing this script. I just need to get into—”

Tiring of the 22 seconds of conversation, Sherlock seized the computer and gave you a stern look.

“Just phone Mycroft.” He narrowed his eyes at you.

“I can provide for myself. Thank you very much.”

“Apparently not. Considering that I’m now confiscating all electronic devices in the flat.”

John furrowed his brow. “Even my…”

“No one reads your blog anyway.” Sherlock scowled at him.

“Now that’s, that’s just not true.” 

Glaring at Sherlock, you jabbed a finger in his direction.

“You’re not touching my—”

But your eyes went wide to confirm that your mobile was no longer in any of your pockets. With the slightest hint of a smirk, Sherlock withdrew it from his pocket and raised his eyebrows.

“You are one….” you growled at him. “Just how am I supposed to call him now?” 

“Brains are fantastically powerful and useful organs. It’s a shame I am the only one to—” 

John hung his head back and groaned.

“Ace, I’m going to get that gun of yours any moment.” You shot daggers at him with your eyes.

“It’s simple.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Bring him the vindaloo recipe. He’ll do just about anything for a forkful.” 

Then he spun around to take your devices only he knows where.

Now, as he watched you feign sleep, Sherlock was at a loss for how to remedy the situation at hand. It was an unfamiliar and unsettling sensation. But he could at least start by studying the inner workings of the human hand in a scientific quest to alleviate your haunting pain.

Body acting of its own volition, Sherlock slid himself back in bed next to you. He freed one of your wrists from its prisons. They were only there to help you, after all. But you never seemed to see it that way.

“I, I’m fine,” you whimpered, eyes still closed.

Sherlock drew in a breath and held it. But instead of correcting your erroneous statement, he raised your fingertips to his lips. 

The contact incited a quickening of his heart rate. Even after all these years apart, you always seemed to have that effect on him.

As you contorted your face to hold back the visible traces of your overwhelming emotion, Sherlock continued to adorn you with kisses.

He pressed his lips to your knuckles, filing away the sensation of the valleys and peaks of your bones. He inched upward to your wrist; wishing, even though the act was quite useless, that he could remedy the aching of your overworked body.

Sherlock kissed along your forearm and to your elbow. But when he reached your shoulder, you gasped a pitiful whine. Holding his breath, he paused. 

Yet, after an aching breath, your muscles relaxed and he placed his lips along the base of your neck. It was certainly his favorite location thus far.

You tilted your head to the side to grant him more access. Sherlock decorated your neck and jawline with his own constellation of long lost wishes of the past.

When he leaned in to kiss your cheek, you turned your head to greet his lips with yours. His breath caught in his throat upon impact. But he quickly (and he was getting faster at this part) accepted your affection and allowed his lips—and heart—to dance with yours.

“I’ve missed you,” you murmured onto his skin.

While it was months since he found you asleep on the couch, Sherlock would never tire of hearing those words (well, any words) from you. He traced his thumb along the side of your face; sparing a frivolous moment to drink in the sight of you.

You grew up beautifully; not that he would be bothered to notice such a thing.

“I left a physical copy of the recipe in the kitchen.”

“How archaic.” You rolled your head back to the pillow. “But thank you.”

“Don’t touch any of my equipment.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Ace.” Your eyes flickered to him. “I’ll be fine. Now run along and do whatever you’ve got going on at this ungodly hour.”

But Sherlock continued to stare at you. Unsettled by the detective’s gaze, you leaned your head back.

“Do you need me to…come with you?”

“No. You’d only slow me down.”

He sprang from bed and dashed toward the door.

“I love you,” you called out.

In the doorway, Sherlock spun around.

“Isn’t it obvious?” He winked.

When Sherlock was out of your sight, you pulled out his mobile and snickered to yourself. 

Heart eternally grateful to be reunited with your best friend.


	5. Bonus: Experimental Anomaly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kiss request from Tumblr for my 50 kiss challenge :)
> 
> #26 Brushing a kiss along the shell of the other person’s ear.

Sitting across from John on your laptops, the sounds of your keyboards clicking away filled the air at 221B. As John typed letter to letter with his index fingers, you hammered away your own steady stream of keystrokes.

Furrowing his brow, John peered over his screen and tilted his head to the side.

“How many words do you type per minute?” he asked.

But you bit the inside of your cheek and narrowed your eyes as you continued typing, typing, typing.

Sitting in his chair, Sherlock leaned back and crossed his legs. He pressed his fingertips together and cocked an eyebrow.

“Used to be an average of eighty-two,” he observed. “But she’s at sixty-seven as of late.”

“Sherlock, love,” you sang.

He looked at you and raised his eyebrows. Peculiar.

“Shut up,” you finished.

Ah. There it was.

Snickering, John resumed his work as Sherlock grumbled to anyone who would listen.

“Still beats John’s abysmal thirty-one words per minute.” He spun around and wrinkled his nose. “How does your mind stand the delay?”

Just as John opened his mouth to speak, Sherlock held up a finger and shook his head.

“No, no. It’s because there isn’t—”

“My mind thinks at a completely normal pace!” John barked.

“Yes, quite average.” Sherlock pressed his fingertips to his chin and glanced upward.

Eyes transfixed on your screen, the corner of your lip upturned in a smirk.

“You know…” You continued typing. “You could just learn how to type like a functional adult instead of using your index fingers to press letter for letter. It would actually make your writing easier.”

“Like a functional adult?” John glared at you over his screen.

You snapped your gaze to him and ceased your code.

“Oh, er. Not good?”

John dragged his hand down his face with a groan. “You’re better than he is.”

“Good enough for me.” You shrugged and continued typing.

But your breath hitched as you felt a presence enclosing behind you. 

“You’re creating an entire acting history for him.” Sherlock furrowed his brow.

After years of this dance, you were used to the feeling of him studying your work like this. With one hand gripping the edge of the table, cheek a breath away from yours, and chest barely kissing your shoulder.

At least, you should have been used to it.

“I was, I was going to let you look everything over before I sent it off.”

Across from you, John pursed his lips in a failed attempt to hide his smile. The crack in your voice certainly did not go unnoticed by him.

“I’ll just, er, I need a break.” You shook out your hands.

With a hard swallow, you pushed out your chair. Sherlock leaned in to offer a kiss against your cheek. He was experimenting with the simple displays of affection, testing your reactions and observing the varying flutters of his own heart and flips of his stomach.

But instead of meeting the side of your face, his lips grazed the shell of your ear.

He jerked his head back and bit his lip.

An unexpected result. But not due to matters of the heart. It was, quite simply, physics.

You avoided his gaze as you tittered yourself to the front door.

“I’m just, I’m just gonna grab a cup of coffee.” 

You dashed out of the flat to the sound of John snickering.

“You’ll get your chance lover boy.” He continued typing.

One. Key. To. The. Next. Key.

Ignoring the tightening of his chest, Sherlock sat in front of your screen to scrutinize your profile for Richard Brook. But, for whatever reason, he simply could not focus as his mind repeatedly ricocheted him to the slight tingle that plagued his lips.

Truly an unexpected result.

He had no other choice than to continue his experiments.

As long as they were with you.


End file.
